


Answer Me

by Virtuella



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Post Sherrinford, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-Finale, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper Fluff, Sherlock Texting, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-05 09:58:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14615901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virtuella/pseuds/Virtuella
Summary: Sherlock has devised a new method of interrogation, one specifically designed to work on Molly Hooper. (You've guessed it, this is yet another TFP fix.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Readers, as it turned out, the plot bunny fairy was not absent for very long. Hope you’ll enjoy. ;-)

Swiftly and neatly, Molly zipped up the body bag. The woman had been younger than herself, yet older looking, chubby, with stretchmarks that spoke of childbirth and lines on her face that bore witness to hard work or heartache or both. Molly couldn’t help thinking of her own trim little body under the layers of clothes. If she died tomorrow, would it tell the story of a life only half lived?

It was her birthday, and she didn’t really want to think about her age. Closer to forty than to thirty, yet no closer than ten years ago to anything that could be called fulfilment. She had few friends, because she worked unsociable hours in a job that didn’t exactly fill people with warm and happy thoughts. The job itself was, pun intended, a dead end, unless she was willing to go into research which simply … didn’t suit her. She’d lost both her parents; her sister lived in Australia and had made her the aunt of two little boys whom she had only seen a handful of times. She’d been engaged and then un-engaged and she couldn’t even regret that anymore.

And then, of course, there was Sherlock.

Her engagement had fallen through exactly at the time when she realised that she would never be able to excise Sherlock from her heart. She had resigned herself to perpetual futile pining and being content with a vague and unreliable friendship, though for a while it had looked as if this friendship was warming and shaping up into something almost like more-than-friendship. There had been hugs. There had been snuggling on the sofa in front of the telly. There had been sleepovers and _spooning_. Most importantly, there had been a sense that they understood each other. A sense that there was a _We_ which was more than a grammatical phenomenon.

And then _that_ had happened.

John had explained it to her afterwards. Greg had explained it, even though he hadn’t been there. Even _Mycroft_ had considered it necessary to elaborate. Only Sherlock had shrugged it all off as if it was nothing at all. He’d asked her the most bizarre question.

“Do we need to make changes?”

What kind of question was that to ask? After what had happened, how could there not be changes?

“Yes, we can’t go on like before,” she had replied, rather tersely.

He had looked at her, lips narrow. He’d said, “Very well,” and turned round and left.

That was six weeks ago. Since then they’d been … polite. The sleepovers, the hugs, it all stopped. They barely met outside the morgue. Sherlock made a point of saying please and thank you and observing all social niceties, and it made the chasm between them feel as vast and cold as outer space. A few times Molly had considered bringing up the topic and asking if they could at least have some kind of friendship again. But in the end she decided that she simply couldn’t cope with any more rejection. And so here she was, on her birthday, working the early shift and having nothing to look forward to for the rest of the day. It was just like Christmas.

Five minutes before the end of her shift, her text alert sounded.

**I have a question to ask you. SH**

Trust his timing!

**Will it take long? I’m about to go home. MH**

**I know. SH**

**Okay, let’s hear it. MH**

**The answer can only be yes or no. SH**

A game again? She wasn’t in the mood. Then again, what else did she have to do with her time?

**All right then. MH**

**I like your morbid jokes. Do you believe me, yes or no? SH**

What the heck? Where did that come from? _Don’t make jokes, Molly._ He’d certainly made it very clear that he didn’t find her the least bit funny. Mind you, that was all a while ago. More recently he had laughed a few times at her awkward quips. Even thrown in the occasional pun of his own. So…?

**Yes or no? SH**

**Yes, I guess. MH**

**No guessing. Straight yes or no. SH**

**What are you on about? MH**

**Just say yes or no. You won’t regret it. Provided you give the right answer. SH**

Oh, whatever.

**Yes. MH**

**Excellent. Now go and look under the bench in the locker room. SH**

**Why? MH**

**Just look. SH**

Molly shrugged and went to the locker room. Tucked behind a leg, flat up against the wall was a white plastic bag. She looked inside and found a box of artisan chocolates. They weren’t wrapped, but a gift tag was attached to the lid:

_That was the correct answer. I think your morbid humour is sweet like the contents of this box. Enjoy your birthday. Sherlock_

The plastic bag rustled as Molly sat down on the bench. She did a brief reality check, but it seemed she was awake. Just fancy that. Sherlock had remembered her birthday and tried to do something, well, something sweet. It was quite a shock. She had to let it settle for a bit. What was she supposed to do now? Oh, yes, text.

**Thanks for the chocolates. It’s appreciated. MH**

**We’re not finished yet. I have another question. SH**

**And that is? MH**

**Same rules as before. SH**

**Okay. MH**

**I like your hair whichever way you part it. Do you believe me, yes or no? SH**

The way she parted her hair? It was a very long time ago that _that_ had been a topic of conversation between them.  Was Sherlock having a bout of sudden-onset nostalgia? Never mind, she could easily believe that Sherlock didn’t give a toss about which way she parted her hair, so she replied:

**Yes. MH**

**Well done. There is a parcel for you at the hospital reception. SH**

“Oh yes,” said the receptionist, a kindly old gent, when Molly asked. “Your young man left this here earlier.”

Before she could protest against “your young man,” Molly found herself holding a small bundle of silvery tissue paper. The gift tag read:

_You are right. I think your hair is always delightful. However, the hairbands you use to hold it together are less delightful. Here’s a suggestion for how to amend this situation: Open the present. Do it now. Sherlock_

For a moment she wondered whether the parcel contained a pair of scissors as a not too subtle hint that she should get a practical haircut. She considered dumping it in her bag and at least seek the privacy of her home before opening it. But the gift tag said to do it now, and Molly had an ingrained habit of following instructions. So she did it there and then.

It was a large oval hair clasp in green, gold and turquoise enamel, depicting irises and dragonflies. The style was reminiscent of William Morris designs she had seen at the Victoria and Albert Museum. Nothing Molly owned could match this hair clasp for beauty. She had to sit down again.

“Are you all right, Dr Hooper?” asked the receptionist.

“Yes, fine, thank you.” She gave a nervous laugh. “It’s my birthday.”

“Oh, many happy returns.”

“Thanks.” She stared at the hair clasp in awe. It was far too lovely, far too sophisticated to be hers. And Sherlock – Sherlock! – had given it to her. And he was probably waiting for her response.

**Thank you so much. This is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given to me. You really shouldn’t have! MH**

**That makes no sense. SH**

**What do you mean? MH**

**If nobody has ever given you anything so beautiful, surely it means that I SHOULD have? SH**

**I suppose.** She hesitated, then added: **Do you want to come over for coffee? MH**

**No, thanks. SH**

Well, it was worth a try. Two gifts from Sherlock was already two more than she had expected, so it would have been unreasonable to wish for more.

**Thank you again. MH**

**My pleasure. SH**

She left the hospital and turned to the right. When she had almost reached her bus stop, a new text alert sounded.

**You’re going the wrong way. SH**

**How so? And how do you know which way I’m going? Are you watching me? MH**

**No. Simple logic. You can’t be going the right way, because I haven’t told you yet what the right way is. SH**

**You speak in riddles. MH**

**Indeed I do. Are you ready for question 3? SH**

**I didn’t expect a question 3! MH**

**Are you ready for it? SH**

**Okay. MH**

**I prefer you without lipstick, because I like you just the way you are. Do you believe me, yes or no? SH**

Right. She felt fairly certain that Sherlock had never seen Bridget Jones’s Diary, therefore he wasn’t doing a Mark Darcy impersonation. So when he said he liked her just the way she was, it could only be because he … meant it? And what did he mean by it? That he didn’t think of her as glamorous, feminine or desirable, but as his down-to-earth, practical, no-nonsense pal? (But the hair clasp…?) Oh, what the hell, she was going to play along.

**Yes. MH**

**Good girl. Swing by at Scotland Yard. Sally Donovan should be on shift. SH**

Sally Donovan? Wasn’t she the grouchy officer who had it in for Sherlock? Oh, well, it was clearly an evening of surprises. Molly made her way to the Mansion House underground station and got on the District Line.

It began to drizzle when she reached the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police. When she asked to see Detective Sergeant Donovan, she was required to state her business.

“Um, personal?”

“Just a moment.” The desk officer picked up the phone. “Sally? I have a Dr Hooper here, wants to see you? – All right.” He nodded at Molly. “She’s coming down in a minute.”

True enough, after barely a minute, Sally strode into the room.

“Hi, doctor. Happy birthday. Freak wants you to have this.” She held out a box, properly gift-wrapped in marbled turquoise paper with a gold ribbon. Molly thanked her, took it and read the tag:

_Right again! See for yourself how delightful you are. Sherlock_

Molly opened the flap of her handbag.

“Hey! Aren’t you going to open it?” cried Sally.

“Um, right here?” Molly had little desire to let Sally see the gift, whatever it might be. But the policewoman stood there arms akimbo, practically blocking the door.

“Yes, go ahead. Freak said so.”

“His name is Sherlock,” mumbled Molly as she removed the wrapping paper. The box, covered in turquoise linen, opened like a book. Inside lay a hand mirror in an Art Nouveau silver frame. The handle was the elongated body of a woman, holding up the glass that was entwined in tendrils of her rose-studded hair. If the hair clasp had been beautiful, the mirror was breath-taking. It appeared to be a real antique.

“Freak seems to think the world of you,” said Sally, not unkindly.

Molly saw herself blushing in the mirror. “Oh, no, it’s just…we’re good friends.”

“Yeah, sure.”

The text alert sounded.

“I need to go,” said Molly. “Thanks.”

Out in the street, she read the text.

**Don’t get involved in any chit-chat with Sally. You have more questions to answer. SH**

**Sherlock, I think it’s really quite enough! That mirror must have cost a fortune! MH**

**Poppycock. Next question. I think everything about you is just the right size. Do you believe me, yes or no? SH**

**Have you thought this game through, Sherlock? I’m hardly going to say no if I already know I’m getting a present for saying yes. MH**

**I am working on the assumption that you are a thoroughly honest person. So, do you believe me, yes or no? SH**

**Yes. MH**

**Good. Go to John’s house. There is a small parcel taped to the underside of the windowsill. SH**

**On my way! Mx**

She was halfway down the escalator to the tube when she realised that she’d signed off her text with the old friendlier greeting. The other thing she noticed was that she was smiling.  If Sherlock was sending her on a trail hunt around London, she was up for it. Even without the prospect of presents, it was preferable to sitting at home staring at the few birthday cards she’d received. She was having fun. Better still, she was having fun with Sherlock, albeit long-distance. It was a great improvement on the last few weeks. Best not to ask at this point whether there was anything more serious behind this than a whimsical birthday surprise.

She found the present, a tiny black lacquered carton smaller than the gift tag attached to it.

_Full marks, Molly! I think small is beautiful and everything about you is just the right size. Except for one thing that’s way too large. What is that? Open the present to find out. Sherlock_

Molly raised her eyebrows. Was this where he would revert to snide remarks? What was it about her that was too large? Objectively, all parts of her anatomy were on the dainty side. What then? Her expectations? Her delusions? She turned the parcel over in her hands. It was really very small, barely more than an inch squared. She could easily claim she hadn’t found it or it hadn’t been there; she could go home and drop it on her way somewhere and just enjoy her three unexpected presents without the sting that seemed bound to follow.

**It has occurred to me that the wording on the tag might be somewhat unfortunate. Please don’t let that put you off. SH**

Molly glanced around. Was he watching her? Where there cameras? Or was it just deduction?

**It’s nothing about you personally that is too large, just something you once wore. SH**

Without further agonising, she lifted the lid – and laughed.


	2. Chapter 2

On a bed of black satin lay a pair of earrings. They were the size of pennies and made of iridescent mother-of-pearl, the exotic kind called abalone. Oscillating in green and turquoise and with gold findings, they were a great match for the hair clasp. Molly shook her head when she remembered the enormous hoops she had worn at that dreadful Christmas party – pretty much the only thing about her appearance Sherlock hadn’t criticised at the time. He was right, of course, these delicate, ocean-shimmering earrings were in much better taste.

**They are beautiful! Why are you spoiling me like this? Mx**

**Because you deserve it. SH**

**Well, thank you. This has turned out to be a great birthday. Mx**

**It’s not finished yet. Next question is coming up. SH**

**Gosh, how many are there? Mx**

**Not telling. I know I have caused you much stress and distress in the past, but it was never intentional. Do you believe me, yes or no? SH**

**Yes, don’t worry, I know that. Mx**

**Splendid. The chip shop in Marylebone Road has the next present. SH**

**Isn’t it enough yet? Mx**

**Let me be the judge of that. SH**

Marylebone Road was quite a distance from John’s house and the tube connection was awkward. Molly considered the bus, but she wasn’t sure about the routes. She decided to take a cab. It only took her ten minutes to flag one down.

On the way, she looked at her presents. Not since childhood had she been so thoroughly delighted with gifts, and back then it had been cuddly toys and glitter pens and one year a chemistry set. Nobody had ever given her anything so exquisitely refined. She pulled the elastic band out of her hair and made a loose bunch on the right side of her face, securing it with the wonderful clasp. Then she slipped on the earrings and looked at herself in the mirror.  The beige cardigan definitely looked out of place. Her face though…

It wasn’t the shiny things that made her look beautiful. It was the hint of happiness that had crept into her eyes, bypassing all her precautions.  She wore a smile that hadn’t been seen in weeks. That Sherlock should do this for her was so, so unbelievable. For a moment she wondered, whether John had put him up to it. _Come on, Sherlock, give the old girl a bit of a treat. After everything you put her through. Good old Molly…_

No! She wasn’t going to spoil the moment with suspicions like that. Even if John had given him a bit of a nudge, Sherlock wouldn’t do anything he didn’t want to do. Anyway, the gifts were clearly Sherlock’s choice. John would have picked something bog-standard. She read the gift tags again.

_I think your morbid humour is sweet like the contents of this box._

_I think your hair is always delightful._

_See for yourself how delightful you are._

_I think small is beautiful and everything about you is just the right size._

Did she believe him, yes or no? She had replied with Yes every time, but she hadn’t been as completely honest as Sherlock assumed her to be. Well, he had given her binary choices, and it wouldn’t have been true to say that she _dis_ believed him either. It was just that she wasn’t sure. It was such an unexpected development and she didn’t quite know what to make of it.  This wasn’t at all like the awkward, transparently manipulative compliments he had given her back in the days. It seemed obvious that he was trying very hard to be nice, excessively nice, and with no hint of sarcasm that she could detect. It came across as completely genuine. So she was going to give him his dues. Even if there were doubts lingering at the back of her mind, she would choose to believe him for now.

By the time she arrived at the chip shop, she had formulated three theories of what the next gift could be. It had to be related to the question, if the others were anything to go by. So her guesses were bath oils, aromatherapy candles or a spa treatment. However, the parcel Sherlock’s buddy handed her with a wink didn’t smell of anything in particular.

_Dear Molly, here’s something to help you cope with stress. I’ve found them to be excellent. Sherlock._

The parcel jingled faintly as she handled it. It was a vaguely familiar sound though she could not quite place it. However, as soon as she removed the wrapping paper and saw the Chinese tapestry box, she knew what it was. 

For a moment she thought he had given her her own ill-received gift back, but these baoding balls where copper coloured, not silver like the ones she had given him. Just like those, though, they were embossed with a pattern of dragons. The chimes inside them rang gently when she rolled them around her palm.

Molly stood on the pavement, the noises of the traffic washing over her, listening to the chimes. She did another reality check. What was happening? What had got into Sherlock? This was so unlike him, and then again, it was exactly like the kind of thing he would do if…

**Well? SH**

**I’ve got them. Thank you. Sherlock, I am quite overwhelmed. Mx**

**This was the last present, but not the last question. SH**

**Okay? Mx**

**When I said I was glad you weren’t wearing an engagement ring any longer, I didn’t mean because the slap hurt less. I was just glad you weren’t getting married. It was a selfish thought and I’m sorry if I caused you pain. Do you forgive me, yes or no? SH**

She forgave him all right, but she wished he hadn’t brought it up. Because what the heck did he mean by all this? Well, she guessed there was only one way of finding out.

**Yes, I forgive you. Mx**

**Thank you. I need you to pick up something from Angelo’s and then make your way to Baker Street. SH**

At Angelo’s, she was presented with a large white cardboard box, the type used for cakes. She had not left the restaurant yet when the text alert sounded again.

**Conversation may really not be your area, but it’s not mine either. I enjoy our companionable silences. Do you believe me, yes or no? SH**

**Yes, and I enjoy them, too. Mx**

**Slide your hand between the lid and the box, without opening it. There is a letter taped to the side of the box. See you later. SH**

It was a sealed envelope, a little bulky, and marked: _To Molly. Open when you reach the front door of Baker Street 221._

She shoved the letter into her – meanwhile rather crammed full – handbag and hailed another cab, because even a twenty minute walk could be awkward with the box. Minutes later she stood in front of the black door. She placed the box on the ground and opened the envelope. It contained a birthday card with Charles Rennie Mackintosh roses and – a key. A freshly cut key by the looks of it.

Molly froze. So far, everything had been lovely and like out of a dream. She felt a little drunk with the thrill of it. But this piece of metal on her palm was suddenly sobering. Because it was serious. Sherlock had been in possession of a key to her flat for ages, but he had never offered to reciprocate, nor had she dared to ask. And now he’d given her a key to 221b. It was hard not to feel this was somehow symbolic.

She read the card:

_Dear Molly, I don’t want you to be alone on your birthday. So come on in. Sherlock_

The key turned smoothly in the lock. The stairwell lay in darkness. There was no sound from either Mrs Hudson’s or Sherlock’s flat. As she climbed up to the first floor, she wondered what Sherlock might have lined up by way of companionable silences. Hopefully it would include food; she felt rather famished after all the rushing around London. Well, presumably the content of the box would provide. She was also curious what the place looked like now it had been restored. John had hinted at improvements, but she’d not been round since before the explosion.

She paused briefly outside the door to Sherlock’s flat, repressing an urge to check herself in the mirror again. _He likes me just the way I am,_ she reminded herself. So she boldly stepped in.

Among a floating forest of helium balloons, a crowd of smiling faces shouted, “Happy birthday, Molly!” Mrs Hudson was there, John with Rosie, of course, but also Greg Lestrade and Mike Stamford, and for some strange reason – perhaps to get a semblance of gender balance? – Sally Donovan. Even Mycroft Holmes was sitting in an armchair looking only slightly put out.

Molly scanned the room a second time.

“Where’s Sherlock?” she blurted out.

“He’s not in.” John looked uncomfortable. “I’ve texted and phoned him, but he’s not replying. I’m sure he was planning to be here, but…”


	3. Chapter 3

 “…he’s not.” Molly forced a smile. “Well, never mind. It’s lovely that you’ve all come. I think we should just have a nice time anyway.”

Greg rushed to help her out of her coat. “You’re looking radiant.”

“Oooh, what a charming hair clasp!” cooed Mrs Hudson.

“Thank you. It’s from a friend.” Molly wasn’t inclined to share the history of this present right now.

And there were more gifts! A travel memoir from John and finger paint scribbles from Rosie. More chocolates, from Mrs Hudson and from Mike. A potted orchid from Mycroft (“My PA wanted to get lilies, but they are lethal to cats.”). Greg and Sally had brought several bottles of wine.

“Thank you all so much,” said Molly, quietly fretting how she was going to get this cornucopia of presents home.

Meanwhile, John had lifted the lid off the box, revealing the cake. Among garlands of delicate yellow sugar flowers on marbled white and gold icing was written:

_Happy birthday,_

_dearest Molly!_

A chorus of appreciative comments promptly ensued.

“There is some finger food in the kitchen.” Mrs Hudson paused, apparently reviewing the potential misunderstandings in this context, and added, “I mean sandwiches and quiche and those fancy Indian things.”

So there was eating, and talking, and the handing out of glasses of wine, and the cutting of the cake, and more talking, and quite a lot of laughing (especially when Rosie, with astonishing dexterity, snatched an onion bhaji and placed it on Mycroft’s head and to everyone’s astonishment he played ball and pretended it was a hat) and Molly smiled, a genuine smile, because she was not alone on her birthday and good people were being kind to her. It was good to catch up with Mrs Hudson and Greg, and she had never known that Mike Stamford was such a great teller of whacky jokes.  Whatever reasons Sherlock had for his absence, she wasn’t going to let it spoil her party. He had already done more than enough for her today.

Nevertheless, at one point Sally Donovan came over and gave her an encouraging nudge.

“Don’t let it bother you. Something urgent probably came up. He really does think the world of you.”

“No offence, but how would you know? You’re not exactly friends.”

“Oh, we talk from time to time. Strictly professionally. And it’s always, _Molly Hooper says thi_ s and _Molly Hooper does that_ , and _I’m going to take this sample over to Bart’s_ , as if we didn’t have a perfectly good lab at the Yard. Doesn’t take a detective to put two and two together.” She glanced at the door. “He’ll probably waltz in here any minute now.”

This possibility had occurred to Molly, too. It would suit Sherlock’s sense of drama to make a big entry. But the minutes passed, the cake disappeared slice by slice, and then John said it was way past Rosie’s bedtime and people started making their farewells, remarking very pointedly what a great party it had been.

“Lift home?” offered Greg. She accepted gratefully. In the car she was quiet, worn out from all the excitement. Greg noticed but drew the wrong conclusion.

“I’m sure whatever kept him away was really important.”

“You don’t have to feel sorry for me, Greg. I’ve had a lovely time. And Sherlock has been … uncommonly kind. You’ve all been so kind. Thank you so much.”

“You deserve it, Molly.”

Molly sighed. Perhaps she did.

If she had harboured hopes that Sherlock might be waiting for her in her flat, she had kept them resolutely in check and therefore her disappointment was minimal when she walked through all the rooms and found them empty.

She made a cup of tea and plunged down on the sofa, reviewing her presents. Mrs Hudson had provided her with a plastic bag so she could carry everything. The orchids, shimmering white with deep purple speckles, rose from a stylish grey and burgundy ceramic pot. The travel book was about Tibet, a place that had always fascinated her, and John must have remembered her mentioning that. One bottle of rosé had been unopened, and Mrs Hudson had wrapped the (minuscule) remainder of the cake in a paper napkin. Rosie’s little fingerprints had smudged a red and yellow patterns all over the card from John. Cards and more cards. Three boxes of chocolate. Dragon-patterned baoding balls. Mother-of-pearl earrings. Mirror. Hair clasp. Sherlock…

He had gone to a lot of trouble planning and organising it all (though he’d probably also had a lot of fun with that). He had retracted virtually every criticism he’d ever levelled at her and showered her with kind words and thoughtful, expensive gifts. He had given her a key to his home. He had assembled an eclectic band of guests to make her feel appreciated. He had done more in a day than many men would do in a year, and certainly more than anyone had ever done for her. Why then did it feel like he was still sitting on the fence?

The text alert sounded.

**Time for the last question. SH**

There was another one? Yes, of course there was another one…

**And what is that? Mx**

**It’s true that I love you. It’s been true for a long time. Do you believe me, yes or no? SH**

Yes, that one. The crucial one. And she would have to answer it. Looking back over the day, it was suddenly obvious how everything was designed to lead to this question and to quell her doubts in advance.  He had made her accept the evidence first. And since she had confessed to believing everything else, how could she now say no? Yet she hesitated. She put the phone aside and walked over to the window, gazing out at the lights. The buzzing city lay out there, and Sherlock was somewhere – where?

The text alert sounded again.

**Molly?**

“It’s not so easy,” she said to the cat. There was so much confusion. Some things made sense, others didn’t.  There were old scars, and recent ones. She was still upset about The Phone Call and uncertain what had actually happened at Sherrinford. But perhaps she could –

**Molly, please!**

**I want to ask some questions first.**

**Okay.**

**How long?**

**Not sure. Probably since the day I died. Maybe a bit before.**

**Why didn’t you say?**

**I didn’t realise it until I was away.**

**And after you came back?**

**You were engaged.**

**Not for long.**

**It’s hard for me. But I was working up to it. I think.**

**Why didn’t you tell me after the Sherrinford thing?**

**You were angry with me. I didn’t know how to handle that. You may recall that whenever you are cross with me, I end up saying something stupendously asinine. In the interest of damage limitation, I had to walk away from that.**

**And so you just gave up on me?**

**No! I came up with this plan, didn’t I? Had it for weeks.**

**Did John know you were not going to come to the party?**

**No. Last minute change of plan. I decided it would be strategically more advantageous for me to be elsewhere.**

_And where exactly is that?_ she wanted to ask, but instead she typed:

**Why?**

**Reason one: I am an attention hog and the party was supposed to be about you. Reason two: I wanted you to take notice of the other people who were willing to turn out for you, and if I had been there, I would have distracted you. Reason three: You’ll see.**

**Okay. One more thing. What have you got in mind for us for the future?**

**Shouldn’t we discuss that together?**

**Yes, but I want to know where you will stand in that discussion.**

**I want to be with you. I'm flexible about the format.**

**Okay.**

**So? Do you believe me that I love you?**

She wanted to believe it. So much. And Sherlock had well and truly pushed the boat out in an effort to convince her. Besides, he had no conceivable motive for lying to her. After all the things she had done for Sherlock in the past, she should be able to do this one thing for him today: to silence the voice of doubt and make herself believe him.

**Yes.**

**Look in your wardrobe.**

Heartbeat hammering in her ears, Molly strode through to the bedroom. She had a fair idea what she was going to find. And right enough, when she yanked open the wardrobe door, there was Sherlock crouching at the bottom, right on top of her shoes, looking very pleased with himself.

“Have you been sitting in there all night?”

“Don’t be silly, Molly. I just slipped in when I heard you coming up the stairs. If you had paid attention, you would have noticed the indentation on the sofa that was created by my esteemed posterior.”

He stretched out a hand and she helped him extract himself from the wardrobe.

“So,” he said as he straightened out his shirt, “how did you like my game?”

She shook her head, smiling. “It was really…something else!”

“It was all my own idea,” he declared proudly. “Well, John said I needed to do something extraordinary to win you back. Or win you in the first place, I don’t know. To convince you, anyway. And he helped me with the fine tuning. But I organised it all. I even spoke to Sally Donovan. And I picked all the gifts and chose all the questions. And it’s really, really true. Are you pleased?”

Molly covered her face with her hand, stifling a laugh. How many times had she imagined Sherlock revealing his love for her? How many Hollywood-worthy, violin-soaring scenarios? And here he was standing in front of her like a dog that had brought a stick. If he’d had a tail, he’d be wagging it.

“Sherlock.” She placed her hands firmly on his shoulders. “You can either have a Well Done sticker or a kiss.  Which one is it going to be?”

His face fell.

“Ow, Molly, you’ve stolen my thunder. I was going to say, I have one more thing to give you, and then I was going to kiss you. Now my whole plan is messed up.”

“Your _whole_ plan?”

“Hmhm. Completely wrecked. I’ll have to improvise.” He reached up, took both her hands and clutched them to his chest.

“Molly,” he murmured, his voice suddenly soft and no longer teasing. “Have I fixed it? Is it all right between us now?”

Molly considered. There were still things that needed to be clarified, questions that needed to be answered. But Sherlock had done enough for one day.

“It will be,” she said. “You’ve done well, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers, I hope you are satisfied. ;-)


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